Sources
by greysnyper
Summary: Packing is hard. Post Infinite Crisis with Bart as the Flash.


Packing is hard. Or hard_er_, for Bart cannot just make himself move to higher speed. Partly it's the obvious, holding him back. He also wants to think that it's an offer to Max, because he really can be patient like everyone else if he only puts his head into it. Mostly, though, it's his heart.

Filling the boxes for Los Angeles _can't_ be done in an instant. Not now, because he knows that the moment he opens that next drawer he's going to find that action figure of Superboy, misplaced all those seasons ago. Or Bart will discover that dinosaur that he used to own, convinced that Gar had somehow gotten it lost in the filter system of the Titan's pool. Perhaps he'll find his old yearbook with everyone's signatures in it, aware of where they are now. Or where they aren't.

He's...

He's going to need more boxes.

"Too much stuff," he murmurs, wondering how there can be so many layers to the corners of his room. Had he ever been organized?

It's probably smart to find some stickies or post-its or something to label the boxes. Or at least, that's what he thinks Tim would do.

Thus, it is that thought that leads Bart down to the main level of the house he is giving up, once more. It's that person that Bart's mind holds in remembrance that is mentioned in the other room. How could he _not_ stop, investigating further?

"What about Tim?"

Joan looks up and Jay turns away from the microwave oven. "I'm sorry?"

And is it the opposite of being impulsive to laugh in a lie, excusing himself away because maybe he shouldn't have been listening. Once more, he goes, "what about Tim?"

Jay opens his mouth and then shuts it, which is something he does when he is gauging a situation. Joan is far more subtle.

"Oh, it's nothing," she smiles. It's her 'there is cookie dough ready in the fridge so you know what tonight means' look, and Bart wants to take the offering.

He stares, instead. Expecting.

"I was just down at the drugstore," she explains. "Noticed his name mentioned on the magazine stand for Gotham Spot, and I just..."

"You have a copy?" Bart chirps, leaning further into the room. He's braced on the doorjamb, ready to find another reason to get out of the house, to the store.

Joan glances over to where her purse sits, along with where the newspaper and the Bugle often rest. Jay clears his throat and Bart snatches his eyes away, instead of himself.

"It wasn't really..." Joan offers. "I thought you would be interested."

"I am," Bart says.

"Son..." starts Jay, looking like he's straining to keep himself away from 'lecturing'. "Not everyone's...fair."

"Like Mr. Kent?" Bart narrows his eyes.

"Yes," Jay agrees. "And Joan and I were both in agreement that the Gotham Spot wasn't really...accurate."

"Oh," Bart nods, dropping his eyes to think as he looks at the table legs.

He knows that they're asking him to let go and walk free. But now that it's out, Bart wants to know the deep dark secret. Tim is his friend, after all and...

Tim _was_ his friend.

"I'm getting some things for my boxes," he tells his guardians. Once more, he feels tired. Exhausted, despite not having done anything. It's a feeling that grows more often, these days.

"You're free to read it," Joan says, before Bart can make away. She gives the stack holding up her purse a little push. "But keep an open mind, okay?"

Hadn't he been born equitable? Or had it always been unthinking?

-

In his fort of boxes, many stacked up and now colourfully titled, Bart wishes he hadn't picked up the article. It had only taken a second to read. He wonders how many years to digest.

Flying pictures, each page a part of one story or another. Something about hybrid cars, and then a feature piece on the Metropolis Vanishing--how people were adjusting and whether or not they deserved special rights. Some movie reviews, the destruction of old property in Gotham, until finally...Tim's face.

It's weird. To this, Bart will admit that he can see a bit of Robin in it. The photographer had been skilled, obviously. Tim's semi-formal and a block away, looking deep in thought as he waits under some awning. The image spread across half of the first page just...feels wrong.

Maybe it's the years of hiding from the spotlight, and hinting at the dark reasons why. Robin had always kept to himself, and Tim had been even scarcer for the longest time.

"Alvin," Bart mocks, touching the glossy page. If the man with the camera had been a sniper, for example. Bart knows that he shouldn't be allowed a chance to even connect with Tim's image in this way. Not like this, where Bart can be anybody.

He closes his eyes and knows that this isn't the reason why Joan had been worried. His knee still aches and Bart wonders if anyone would understand. He himself had been frozen for a single instant.

Click.

Conner is dead. And making goddamn cars, Bart had dropped off of the face of the planet! And Tim had, too--for a time. Thus, now page seventy-three comes as a shock. A flash bulb and Tim, maybe waiting for his ride down a midtown Gotham street.

Is it so wrong to ask about whatever had happened to hiding?

The article claims to tell it all. Bruce Wayne adopting, and Bart truly isn't surprised about this. He had heard about it through various channels, all related to the old life. It's just the subtle accusations--layers under the text, stating while specifically unsaid--about how this new face in the elite circles has the rich under his finger.

Don't they know that Tim could have _anyone_ twisted around?

The editor is coy, observing that the kid had grown up well-off, until tragedy and some bad business had lead to Timothy "leading a middle-class existence", as if that were a crime. And suddenly, who becomes Bruce Wayne's "eager little visitor, frequenting the man's Manor" while eventually "somehow affording weekend lessons at a private engineering vocational school"?

Bart's not sure where to begin. Hell, he should just dismiss it outright and move on. He can guess now that Tim would probably hold up the story as a testament to a good and secure secret identity.

Because...because Robin's not selfish and money-grabbing. Not obsessed with the game of the rich and the richer. Not a soul would suspect!

Sighing, Bart pulls the pages apart until he hears the satisfying tear.

No matter what Tim would say, there _has_ to be something deeper. And it wouldn't be Tim to express it. Some slight on his character or the public leer on his history. After classifying the peculiar circumstances surrounding the death of Tim's real dad: "a hired assassin whose benefactor had never been uncovered", Bart can't help but recall the instant Robin had given himself in to the team.

They had held together on that overcast day with the smell of ozone still present in the alleyway.

The Titans hadn't lasted long enough.

Swallowing thickly, Bart puts the two pieces of the tabloid aside. He should say _something_. Write a million angry letters under different names, or go tell Tim that he knows that none of it is true.

And...

And Tim will look at him with a blank stare and tell Bart that he's got a new life now and a new image. That at least he hadn't retired or...

"Los Angeles," Bart murmurs, raking a hand through his hair. He shouldn't be playing with such images. Tim's not like that.

The wry smile, instead. Robin's 'I shrugged this off last week, you're freaking out over old news and it's silly' stare. The lines Bart can fill in himself: 'this doesn't matter, but thanks for caring.'

'Thanks so much for caring. You don't even know...'

He's fixated on nothing, his lips soundless and moving.

'It's been too long, and I missed you.'

Only...

Only Bart can't go to Gotham now. He's still got some things left to pack. And to show up unannounced would be impulsive.

Tim would laugh, or be annoyed. Or...

What's left of those instincts, Bart pushes aside. He has things to do, and to resort once more to feeling...it's like trusting an unreliable source.

Not something Tim would do.

So Bart returns to his task at hand. And like before, it's hard.


End file.
